by L M Jackson
‘What do you care, anyway?’ said Norah, despondently.
‘You saw him; you saw what he’s like. I’m going to make him pay for what he did – I don’t know how, but I swear I will, for Georgie’s sake. Yours too. But you’ve got to help me.’
Norah Smallwood sniffed, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mrs. Tanner put her hands to her temples. Ralph Grundy, however, tried another tack. ‘What about that lady they were talking about, missus, eh? At the hotel?’
‘What lady?’ asked Norah.
‘There was a woman staying at the Hummums, a Miss Ferntower,’ explained Sarah Tanner, taking Ralph Grundy’s cue. ‘When I came to look for you, I heard someone say she’d gone missing. Could it be anything to do with Georgie?’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’
‘Well, did you see her – Miss Ferntower?’
Norah Smallwood paused, then nodded. ‘Yes, I remember her.’
‘Well, what was she like?’ asked Mrs. Tanner. ‘Young, old?’
‘She only came in on Thursday, but I saw her a few times. She was old – about forty or so, I s’pose.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘I don’t know. She weren’t bad-looking, though, if she’d have took her hat off.’
‘Her hat?’
‘Well, she had this veil, even when she was indoors. I thought it was the fashion, but she must have seen me looking, ’cos she said it was the light; something about her eyes. I didn’t pay any heed; none of my business. I thought maybe she’d had the pox or something. But she hadn’t.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Mrs. Tanner.
‘I caught her when she was dressing, when she didn’t have her hat on. That made her jump! I was only bringing her coals up. A right bag of nerves, she was. Wouldn’t surprise me if she had run off somewhere and all.’
‘You’d know her again, then, if you saw her?’
Norah Smallwood shrugged. ‘S’pose.’
‘What about George,’ persisted Mrs. Tanner. ‘Did he have anything to do with her?’
‘I don’t know. He might have done. I weren’t his bleedin’ shadow!’
‘Norah, there must be—’
But before Mrs. Tanner could say another word, Ralph Grundy raised his hand.
‘Missus, you do as you like but it’s gone two o’clock in the morning, and I ain’t getting any younger. I need my kip. I reckon a couple of hours wouldn’t do you no harm neither.’
For a moment, Sarah Tanner seemed inclined to disagree. But, looking at the tear-stained face of Norah Smallwood, she gave way.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she replied reluctantly.
‘About time,’ added Norah, under her breath. ‘Lor, you’d think you were a bloody Peeler, the way you go on. I’ve done my best, ain’t I?’
Sarah Tanner nodded wearily. ‘I’ve made up a bed in the back parlour upstairs. You can sleep there, if you like. We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘Thank you,’ muttered Norah Smallwood. ‘For the lodgings, anyhow.’
‘My pleasure,’ replied Mrs. Tanner, with a sigh.
Norah Smallwood needed no further prompting but made her way upstairs, taking a candle to light her way. Ralph Grundy, in turn, got up and picked his hat and coat from the nearby stand.
‘Been a fine old night, ain’t it?’ he said, as he unlocked the door to the shop.
‘She doesn’t know anything, Ralph,’ said Mrs. Tanner, in a low voice. ‘And what am I going to do with her now? I can’t hide her upstairs for ever.’
‘If it were down to me, missus,’ replied Ralph Grundy, equally quiet, ‘I’d point her in the direction of the big house. Let the parish have her; she won’t come to any harm there. And if she don’t care for that life, then it’s her own look-out.’
‘Ralph! The workhouse? She’s not so bad as all that. I was no better, when I was her age.’
‘If you say so, missus, I won’t argue,’ replied Ralph Grundy. ‘But do you reckon she’ll be here in the morning? I’d count the silver now, if I was you.’
‘Silver? There’s no worry on that score.’
Ralph Grundy smiled. But then, even as he opened the door, his face turned suddenly grave.
‘I’m sorry, missus. I should have said before.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘That I weren’t no use, when that hulking brute got hold of you. To tell the honest truth, I’m an old man and—’
‘Hush,’ said Mrs. Tanner. ‘I’m glad you kept quiet. I’ve seen that man’s handiwork; you were better off where you were.’
Ralph Grundy shook his head. ‘That’s kind of you, missus. But I know what’s right and what’s wrong. And I know I was a coward; and I ain’t proud of it. If I could have—’
‘Hush, Ralph, please. Besides, I got the devil’s number; that’s something.’
‘His number?’ said Ralph, surprised. ‘Here, you kept that quiet. His coat was full over his collar, weren’t it?’
‘Near enough. But I saw some of it. K1 something. K division. That means he’s from down the river – Rotherhithe or Greenwich.’
‘You know ’em off by heart, eh?’ said Ralph.
‘I’ve had reason to learn.’
‘So what’s he doing snooping round Covent Garden?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘But at least it means we know his patch; someone will have heard of him. We can make inquiries.’
‘Inquiries! Maybe you’d do better not asking questions, missus. Did you ever think of that?’
‘You know I’ve made up my mind on that score, Ralph.’
Ralph Grundy shrugged. ‘Well, then, there’s nothing more to say on it, is there? Good night, missus. Keep an eye on her upstairs.’
‘Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Ralph Grundy nodded and walked out into the street. Mrs. Tanner, for her part, closed the door firmly behind him, turning the key in the lock. She took the solitary lamp that stood on the counter, and in her customary fashion used it to light the way upstairs. She only paused when she came to the door to the upstairs parlour, the little room behind her own, in which she had put down a pair of rugs and some blankets, so that Norah Smallwood might have somewhere to sleep for the night. There was a hint of candle-light still showing, the glimmer just visible in the gap beneath the door.
She hesitated for a moment, then knocked and went in. Norah Smallwood sat cross-legged upon the floor, blankets wrapped round her shoulders.
‘Are you warm enough?’ asked Mrs. Tanner. ‘You should try and sleep a little, if you can.’
‘Do you think he loved me?’ replied Norah, sniffing. ‘Georgie? He said he did.’
‘Then I am sure he did.’
‘No, you don’t think so, not really,’ replied Norah Smallwood. ‘I ain’t stupid. I just thought … well, I don’t know …’
At first, Sarah Tanner said nothing. But, as Norah spoke, she noticed that a small crumpled piece of paper fell from the girl’s fingers.
‘What’s that?’
‘See for yourself,’ said Norah. ‘Proves you’re right.’
Sarah Tanner put the lamp to one side and bent down, opening the piece of paper, finding it stained with the girl’s tears.
‘“Diana. London Bridge. Sunday, two o’clock,”’ said Mrs. Tanner, reading out loud. ‘What is it? I don’t understand.’
‘When he didn’t come back that night, I went up to his room. There weren’t nothing there, mind. He’d cleared out. I told myself he’d come back for me. He promised, see? But then I found that. Probably fell out of his pocket or something. It’s another gal, ain’t it? He was going to meet her tomorrow. He weren’t going to stick with me at all. I told myself it weren’t true, but … well, it don’t matter now anyhow.’
‘You looked in the room? Why didn’t you say? Was there anything else?’
‘Lor!’ exclaimed Norah Smallwood. ‘Will you stop going on! I
told you – I don’t know nothing!’
Sarah Tanner woke at half-past five in the morning. For, although she felt quite exhausted, the daily routine of the Dining and Coffee Rooms was not easily broken. She could, at least, hear Norah Smallwood snoring in the room next door and felt a slight sensation of relief that, contrary to Ralph Grundy’s prediction, her guest had stayed the night.
With lamp in hand, she went downstairs. But, as she came to the kitchen, she paused and turned back towards the shop itself. Barely awake, she was somehow conscious of a half-formed thought; a memory that seemed just out of reach.
What was it?
She walked over to the portion of the counter where the newspapers accumulated in the shop – abandoned, lost or generously donated by customers – had been neatly arranged into a pile by Ralph Grundy.
Then it struck her. The papers had been there the day before, whilst she was serving in the shop.
She put down the lamp and took a copy of the previous day’s Times that lay on top of the pile. She recalled it had been left by a junior clerk who frequented the Coffee Rooms for his breakfast. She ran her finger down the first column: the advertisements, ‘BOMBAY STEAMER’, ‘AUSTRALIAN EMIGRATION’, then finally she came to one at the bottom of the page:
STEAM to MARGATE, at 2 o’clock precisely, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, from London-bridge-wharf by the DIANA, the fastest packet to travel direct, no stations between. Diamond Funnel Company. Offices – 113 Fenchurch-street and at wharf.
Sarah Tanner allowed herself a brief, satisfied smile.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘What’s that again?’ said Ralph Grundy, incredulous.
It was Sunday morning on Leather Lane, though there was little sign of church-going amongst the market folk outside. The old waiter’s face was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight as he spoke, shining through the rather smeared glass of the Coffee Rooms’s window.
‘I slept on it. I told her she can stay on, work here, earn her keep. We need another pair of hands; you’re always saying we could do with someone.’
‘Begging your pardon, missus, but I wasn’t thinking of—’
‘Norah can stay on,’ said Sarah Tanner firmly. ‘That’s settled. If she gives any trouble, well, that’s another matter.’
‘It’s your gaff, missus,’ replied Ralph Grundy, ‘and you can do what you like. But I can’t see the sense in it. Even if she’s straight with us, what if she brings company, eh? What if your friend finds her again?’
‘He wouldn’t even know where to start. Besides, this isn’t a bad place for her to lay low. It’ll do as well as anywhere else.’
‘Is that so?’ said Ralph Grundy. ‘Ah, well, I was forgetting that, with everything being so quiet round here lately.’
‘Ralph, please. Now, I’ve just told Mrs. Hinchley she’s my cousin. I’d be obliged if you didn’t tell her otherwise.’
‘Hmm. And where is she, then, your little cousin, if she’s supposed to be here working?’
‘She upstairs, changing.’
‘Changing?’
‘I’ve lent her a dress. If she’s going to work here, she needs something better than that rag she was wearing.’
Ralph Grundy shook his head at the highly unsatisfactory development. Any further conversation with his employer, however, was cut short by a loud shout from Mrs. Hinchley – a summons which ran along the lines of ‘Done! Two eggs and bacon; full hot!’ – which drew him back towards the kitchen.
Mrs. Tanner, for her part, waited for the waiter’s return; then, leaving him to his work, she went upstairs.
She found Norah Smallwood in the front bedroom, already dressed, examining herself in her employer’s dressing-table mirror.
‘You look much better already,’ said Mrs. Tanner, standing by the door.
‘I s’pose.’
‘I hope you haven’t changed your mind already?’
‘No, I ain’t,’ said Norah. ‘I was just thinking on it, that’s all. I ain’t got nowhere to go, anyhow.’
‘Well then. We’ve got customers waiting.’
‘Four bob a week, food and lodgings?’ said Norah Smallwood.
‘Three and six,’ said Sarah Tanner reproachfully, ‘like we agreed. Ralph doesn’t think you’ll suit, mind you.’
‘Don’t he just!’ exclaimed Norah, instantly roused to rather exaggerated indignation. ‘What’s he got to say about it?’
‘He thinks you’ll take off with the money-box, first chance you get.’
‘Who does he think he is – bleedin’ dried-up piece of old parchment!’ exclaimed Norah. ‘I ain’t—’
Sarah Tanner, however, interrupted, raising her hand. ‘Norah, he might not look it, but Ralph’s no fool. And I’m not either. You just remember that.’
‘I ain’t a thief,’ said Norah, sullenly.
‘I didn’t say you were. Listen, George Phelps made me a lot of promises too, a few years ago; but he didn’t keep many of them. Trust me, you’re better off here, for now at least. As for Ralph, just put in a good day’s work and don’t give him any chaff; that’ll set you straight with him – and me – quicker than anything.’
Norah Smallwood nodded but it was impossible to tell whether she was entirely convinced. ‘What about that steamer, then, the one in the paper? I thought you said we was going to go down to the bridge.’
‘Not until this afternoon. Go on, go downstairs – Ralph can introduce you to Mrs. Hinchley; she’ll find something for you to do.’
‘I ain’t afraid of hard work, missus – ask anyone.’
‘Good. I’m relying on that.’
Norah Smallwood left the room, though, in truth, the young girl’s expression was still rather sullen. Mrs. Tanner herself was about to follow when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye: the top drawer of her dressing table was ever so slightly ajar, although the key was still in the lock, where she herself had left it the night before.
She opened the drawer and examined the contents: a little bundle of letters, tied together with a thin red ribbon. As she turned them over in her hands, she noticed that it was a rather clumsy bow and that the knot was not her own handiwork.
Sarah Tanner frowned.
After a moment’s thought, she closed the drawer and locked it shut, ready to place the key in the pocket of her dress. But then she hesitated. For there was another locked drawer, beneath the first.
She knelt down, unlocked and opened it.
At first sight, the contents of the drawer were merely bundles of rags. But beneath the cloth lay something far more precious: a small pocket pistol, with a dark walnut stock and rather tarnished barrel. Next to it lay a wooden case, which she opened with caution. Within were a dozen brass percussion caps and bullets, carefully wrapped in cotton.
Sarah Tanner counted each one, until, relieved, she was quite satisfied nothing was missing.
With Norah Smallwood occupied in the kitchen, receiving instruction on the art of cleaning a skillet – an art which Mrs. Hinchley was more than happy to pass on to her new apprentice – Mrs. Tanner addressed a few words to Ralph Grundy then quit the Dining and Coffee Rooms.
She found Leather Lane at its busiest, not only packed with costers’ barrows, but the pavements cluttered with the impromptu emporia of lesser businessmen. For, upon every corner, threadbare sheets of cloth were laid upon the ground; and upon them lay everything that could be bought for a few pence, from rather battered-looking Dutch dolls to bags of brass nails. She picked her way between the vendors. Her progress was further hindered by the Lane’s ambling itinerant merchants, sellers of food and drink. Given to awkward stops and starts, and their shouts filled the market: A pint o’ prawns for a penny! Hot spiced gingerbread, hot as hell-fire! Fine silver mackerel! Almond toffee! The cacophany of calls merged into a rather bilious-sounding menu.
At last, she came to Holborn. She crossed the broad road, turning eastwards, following the trickle of Sunday-morning traffic for a quart
er of a mile or so, until she came to a narrow tributary of the great thoroughfare, a street known as Feathers Court. It was a narrow, rather dingy, sooty road, with its opposing walls oppressively close, interlaced by the washing-lines which residents had strung from one window to another. Sarah Tanner’s goal was a particular building: an ancient-looking house with cracked slates and rickety sash windows. It bore a painted sign above its front door that read Chas. Merryweather & Son, Bookseller and Law Stationer.
She tried the door and, finding it open, went inside. A man’s voice instantly rang out in the hallway.
‘Who’s that?’
She found the owner of the voice in the front room, a rather small and gloomy parlour. It contained a small smoky fire-place, and a prevailing odour of spilt ink and sealing wax. On either side of the chimney breast were walls lined with shelves, and the shelves, made of dusty, dreary-looking wood, were lined with dusty, dreary-looking volumes to match. The occupant was a middle-aged man, seated at a writing-desk, a bald, whiskered individual with a slight paunch and a rubicund complexion. His face was half hidden by an avalanche of papers and documents, which, to all appearances, had tumbled from some great height, settled upon the desk, and then spilt promiscuously over the floor. Yet, when he finally caught sight of his visitor, he immediately stood up and smiled a broad smile.
‘Miss Mills!’
‘Mr. Merryweather.’
‘Please, my dear! Charles, if you will – no! – Charlie, if you’re agreeable,’ said Mr. Merryweather, whipping a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and ostentatiously dusting off one of the chairs that sat by the hearth. ‘Chas, if you’ve a heart; if you’ve a mind to please your old acquaintance. And I know you have a heart, my dear. I know it! Heavens! Sit, my dear young woman, sit!’
Sarah Tanner obliged, but did not have a moment to speak, before her host continued.
‘Now, this is an occasion!’ exclaimed Mr. Merryweather. ‘A glass of port is called for, don’t you think? You must take a drop!’